


The speaker is Death

by MundaneChampagne



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Archive warnings because Dark Brotherhood, Backstory, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Torture, Vignettes, slices of life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneChampagne/pseuds/MundaneChampagne
Summary: A series of events in the life of a legendary assassin. But legends are people too, and life in the Dark brotherhood comes with some unusual challenges.Exploring a backstory for Lucien Lachance.





	1. On the Making of a Murderer

If every murderer in Tamriel were recruited to the Dark Brotherhood, their sanctuaries would be spilling out onto the streets. That honor is only reserved for the real killers, the ones with murder in their blood and death in their soul, and the Night Mother has discerning taste.

 

The Waterfront District is a stain on the otherwise grand Imperial City.

Most people live in cramped wooden shacks that are piled so close together that in a fire, a whole block would be gone before someone could shout for help. The City Guard doesn't care much to patrol down here. The Grey Fox's people take it upon themselves to protect the Waterfronters instead.

But some are determined to protect themselves.

As it was on the day when Lucien Lachance stole a small dagger from the markets and killed a boy who bullied the younger children. Put the dagger through the older boy's gut, twisted, and noted with distaste how long it took for the boy to die.

He wiped the blood from the dagger, slipped it into his shoe, and swore that next time, he would do better.

 

Their mother was almost bedridden, her back twisted and riddled with pain. Some days, she could barely walk.

Her three children learned to do for themselves instead.

His older brother was charming. He spoke well, like a person far above his class, yet acted with deference. With these qualities, he quickly rose as a trusted courier, carrying messages and tokens between the wealthy, and receiving some coin in return.

His younger sister was small. She could fit through the tiniest of windows, and could hoist her insignificant weight while climbing stone walls. She was quickly taken in by the Fox's people, and put to work as a scout, and then a cat burglar.

Lucien had no particular talent. He longed for a place in the world like his siblings had found for themselves. He cut a few purses, lifted some goods from market stands, and sharpened his dagger, ambition burning inside of him but with no place to turn it.

And then his mother accidentally offended a drunkard on one of the days when she was feeling well enough to go out.

That night, the man banged on their shack door. Lucien's brother barricaded the door with a chair, then they huddled and were silent, waiting for the Fox's people to come and save them. Lucien grasped his dagger, hidden inside his tunic, and stewed, frustrated with hiding. What was the point of hiding, he screamed mentally, when they could _fight?_

Then the door splintered, the chair was flung aside, and the man barged into the shack.

Their mother put herself in front of her children, but Lucien ducked under her arm, dodged the man's drunken swing. Remembering the lessons from last time, this time he aimed for the ribs. The dagger hit home, puncturing organs and turning the man's expression of rage to that of shock. He fell, bled, and died quickly.

When he turned to the rest of his family, their faces mirrored the dead man's rictus.

He wiped off the dagger, and the Fox's people helped them move the body, and it was dumped unceremoniously into the harbor.

His family never quite looked at him in the same way again.

 

Too much spare time, his mother decided, was the problem. Go find a tradesman, get an apprenticeship. Don't bother coming back home until you do.

That was fine. Lucien wandered the streets, swiped a small soul gem, and found an older alchemist whose eyes were beginning to go and needed someone to help in the shop. Lucien was barely literate, but managed to talk his way into the position.

That evening, he left the alchemist's shop, and made for a different shop.

A purveyor of enchanted goods was just locking up for the evening when Lucien strode in. He held out the dagger and the soul gem and said, "Teach me how to enchant this."

The man might have been feeling magnanimous that day. Certainly he could've thrown the child out of his shop without a word. But instead, he took the boy back to his enchanting table. Lucien had to hoist himself up on the table to see what was going on. The man explained how the soul in the gem would power the enchantment, how the table allowed a spell cast to flow into an item rather than dissipate, and how the dagger's enchantment would need recharging now and then. He paused then. "What sort of enchantment do you want on it?"

Lucien considered. He knew a few small spells, but didn't have enough confidence to work them regularly. "I want it to take a person's life force."

The man nodded, then set his hands over Lucien's and guided him in casting a drain vitality spell. The dagger gleamed with a strange light when it was done, and felt newly warm in Lucien's hands. He thanked the man, and left.

 

The years passed. Lucien soon became invaluable to the old alchemist, and swiftly progressed in his own study of alchemy. Although there wasn't much call for poisons, they were the concoctions that fascinated him the most. How many ways were there to deal death, how many pathways in the body that could be turned foul?

He learned to put on a polite face for the patrons in the shop, and soon could rival his older brother for charm, although he had to swallow the frustration that threatened to erupt every time he had a difficult customer.

His sister was gone most of the time now, although she frequently returned home to deliver some money. His older brother was now working as a prostitute, his charm allowing him to work in the city itself, instead of the Waterfront. He regularly brought home money as well.

Lucien was not paid half as well, but he could read now, and was able to soothe his mother's pains with his new knowledge of healing potions.

The dagger stayed tucked away, always on his person, but never did he have a reason to use it. Still, he remembered, and made sure to study anatomy with the alchemist. The neck, he learned, was the quickest way to kill, but only if the blade cut the right spot. The ribs were a gamble. The gut was a slow and agonizing death. There was a vein in the leg, he learned, that was almost as good as the vein in the neck, but would spray quite a bit more. He filed all this knowledge away.

Soon, he would use it.

On a hot summer day, when the air was heavy with humidity, he stood behind the counter and silently fumed as a line of people were not satisfied with the alchemical help he could provide. Customer after customer, and he squeezed his eyes shut and longed for the day to be over.

Clouds hung in the sky when he left, threatening thunder. Lucien wound through the city streets, desperate to just throw himself down on his meager bedroll and let the day drain away. The stench of the Waterfront, amplified in the summer heat, hit him in the nose as he left the city proper.

A shout interrupted his silent stewing. Lucien glanced up only to see one of the regular drunkards leaning up against a wall, giving him a rude gesture. Lucien flipped his own obscenity back at the man, and continued without a thought.

Until he glanced behind him and realized the drunkard was following him.

Something must have roused the man into indignant action tonight. He would regularly shout profanity at passers-by, but never before had he made any more threatening moves. But there was something different this time. The heat had the whole city on edge.

Lucien merely sped up, trying to lose the man, but this proved fruitless, the man shoving people aside to remain in pursuit. Thinking quickly, his heart speeding in anticipation, Lucien ducked down an alleyway. The man followed.

Lucien whirled around. "What do you want?"

"Cheeky li'l fuck," the man slurred, some drool slipping down his chin. "No respec'."

Lucien's blood had been boiling all day, and now it erupted. He pulled his dagger—so long since it had tasted blood!—from his boot, and went right through the man's throat, shoving the dagger upwards into his jaw. The man only had time to gurgle.

As the body hit the ground, Lucien pulled the dagger free. He'd almost forgotten about the enchantment on it—but his body pulsed with new energy, not the rush of a kill, but surely the last of the man's life.

The dagger hastily wiped on the dead man's shirt, Lucien headed out of the alley, not wanting to linger. The kill had done nothing for his mood. Sweat ran down the back of his neck. Blood on the edge of the dagger, and he couldn't even enjoy it.

His pace increased, and in the next breath he bumped into someone. Made to slip to the side, mutter an apology, but a hand grasped his arm. "Lucien," his brother whispered.

Lucien looked up at his brother. He was obviously holding back tears, trembling slightly. His tunic ripped.

A line of dark bruises across his neck.

Lucien ripped his arm free, his grip tightening on his dagger. "Who did this?" he snarled.

"Luce, no—just get me home, I want to go home—"

" _Who did this?_ "

His brother shrunk back, seeing something written on his face. "He was following me," he whispered. "He said he would pay well, but then he grabbed my neck—"

"Just tell me," Lucien whispered, his throat hoarse. "Tell me, and you'll never see him again."

His brother reached out for him again, but Lucien avoided his touch. His brother then turned, looked back over his shoulder—"There. The one in the blue cap."

That was all Lucien needed. "Go home," he said roughly, and took off running, weaving through the crowd.

He was on the man in the blue cap before he could even scream, a slice across the side of the neck, blood on the cobblestones. His heart pounding, his head rushing, every moment seemingly gone in an instant and lingering forever—There was a scream from someone, and Lucien shoved the body, writhing in death throes, away from him, and bolted.

He crashed into his brother, who was leaning up against an alley wall, his whole body trembling now. "I told you to go home!" Lucien hissed.

His brother shook his head. "I didn't ask for that."

"He hurt you—"

" _I didn't ask for that!_ " his brother cried, and shoved him away. Lucien hit the ground, the bloody dagger still clutched in his hand, his brother staring down at him. "What's wrong with you?" he said, tears darkening his face. "Why are you so ok with killing? It's not—" He turned away. "Just go away. I can't even—Fuck, Luce. What are you?"

Lucien simply sat on the ground as his brother fled into the gathering twilight.

 

Thunder rumbled overhead, staining the clouds with light. Lucien lay curled up in a clump of ferns growing alongside a building, praying it wouldn't rain. He turned the dagger, still bloodied, over and over in his hands.

And then, on some odd whim, he brought it to his mouth and licked the drying blood. The tang of copper filled his mouth, and he smiled slightly, remembering how bright it'd been when it was fresh, in the sunset light.

Now, in the dark, the stains of blood were black.

Damn his brother! For making such a scene over it. The man was dead, he'd never touch his brother again, and the world was better off without people like that (and the drunkard, the kill that his brother didn't even know about). There were public executions every eighth day in the plaza, and the city guards had no compunction over killing someone who put up a fight. Death surrounded the people of the Imperial City. So why such a fuss when the void claimed one more?

I'm good at it, Lucien thought. Kids aren't supposed to be good at killing.

I've finally found something I'm good at, and I can't even have it.

 

When the Night Mother speaks, her closest child listens.

Even if he doesn't always like what he hears.

He called the members of the Black Hand to his house. Shadows, whispering through the foul streets of Bravil, slipping around corners, keeping to the edges of the dark. They gathered, ready to listen.

"There's a potential," he said. His mouth was full of saliva, and it was hard to speak around. "Quite an interesting killer, our Mother says. Which of you will claim him?"

The Speakers all waited. "What's the catch?" someone finally asked. There's got to be a catch. The Listener isn't usually this reserved about a potential new family member.

"He's twelve," the Listener said with reluctance.

The Speakers, one by one, turned away. No one wanted to raise a child in their Sanctuary, and who can blame them?

Finally, one speaks up. "I'll take him," she said. "Just tell me where he can be found."

 

A light fall of rain woke Lucien up. The thunder was rumbling harder now, and the damp put a chill into him, despite the lingering heat of the day.

There was a shadow standing over him.

Lucien was on his feet within a second, his dagger held out in front of him, ready to defend. The shadow merely smiled, their face almost, but not quite, concealed by a back hood.

"Quick on your feet," the shadow said. An accent he recognized as coming from Morrowind. "That's good."

"Who are you?" he said, clenching his hand around the hilt of the dagger to keep his hand from shaking. "Look, if you're with the Fox—"

"The guild?" the shadow said, amused. "No, child. I am not with the Thieves Guild.  Rather, you've caught the attention of the Dark Brotherhood, and I am here to offer you the opportunity to join us."

Lucien didn't lower the dagger. His heart working overtime—the Dark Brotherhood. A myth, he'd thought. An organization of killers who came when asked, ready to kill for gold. An idle fancy, to scare people. And here—

"Say I'm interested," Lucien said carefully. "What do I have to do?"

The shadow smiled. "A covenant must be signed in blood, child. I'm am curious—you've killed in anger, in the heat of a moment. Can you hunt a target, plan someone's death? There is also the question of loyalty: I need to know that when I say to kill, you will kill without question." The smile grew wider. "Here is what you must do.

"We have a contract on a minor noble living in Talos Plaza. Marjorie Atius walks in the gardens every day, giving you an opportunity to strike. Kill her, but do so out of sight, without harming anyone else. Do this for me, and your initiation into the family will be complete."

"How will I find you when I'm done?"

The shadow laughed. "I will find you, child." They reached into their robes, and withdrew a dagger. "And please. A gift, and a symbol of our promise." They held out the dagger, hilt first. Lucien reached out with his free hand, and grasped it with trembling fingers. "A virgin blade, and it cries out for blood. Go now, fulfill your contract. And I will be watching."

 

Lucien ran his hand over the new blade, over and over again, thinking.

The gardens wouldn't do. Assuming he'd even be let into the gardens, there were so many people there during the day that it would be impossible to remain undetected. His general state of shoddiness would have him tossed out by the collar before he could say "Night Mother".

No. He needed another plan.

After scouting around the Plaza in the early hours of the dawn, he retreated to the alchemist's shop, and borrowed some writing supplies. He carefully traced out a letter, copying off the old alchemist's notes; the man's handwriting was so ornate that it took a good amount of time to decipher, even for Lucien, who'd been reading it for years. He rolled up the letter, inserted it into a leather case, and carefully pressed it closed with a wax seal.

After the shop closed for the day, he took his letter and stowed the new dagger in his belt, concealing it under his tunic.

Marjorie Atius kept a small but luxurious household. She had a footman and a cook, but no other servants. She had a great deal of correspondence with other nobles in the city. Lucien grinned. It was amazing how much information could be discerned about a person with a little watching and a few bribes.

He walked through the Plaza like a man on a mission. Kids doing courier work wasn't an unusual sight in the city; as long as he kept his head up and his eyes on the goal, no one would stop him.

He knocked on the door.

"Urgent message for Lady Atius," he said, panting a little for effect. The footman frowned, but he held out the letter case. The footman started to reach for it, but Lucien flinched back. "For the Lady's eyes only," he pleaded. "The sender was very specific."

"Who was this sender?"

Lucien shook his head. "I don't know. He was dressed very nice, and had an Alik'r bodyguard." A calculated gamble. Marjorie Atius did have a number of foreign contacts.

The footman nodded. "You'd better come in."

The house was _lovely_. Lucien let himself gawk a little; it was perfectly in character for a poor kid working as a message boy. "My Lady," the footman called. "Urgent message."

"I'll take it in my study," a voice called from the second floor. The footman went to reach for the letter again, but Lucien clutched it tightly, shook his head. The footman frowned, but gestured with his head to go on up.

Lucien's mouth went dry. He hurried up the grand flight of stairs, and into the first room at the top. Lady Atius was sitting at a desk. She held her hand out, beckoned for the letter. Lucien carefully placed it in her outstretched hand, bowing in deference, not meeting her eyes.

He stood while she unsealed the case, pulled out and unrolled the letter, and squinted at the handwriting. Lucien's heart gave a little flutter. Besides the flourishes of the writing, he'd also made it as verbose as possible, to give him more time.

As her eyes flicked back and forth, he slowly moved his hand to the new dagger.

And then with a lightning fury, he struck. Placed one hand over her mouth, slit the side of her throat with the other, and held her until her struggles stopped. He carefully moved away, taking care that the dying woman didn't fall to the side and make a noise.

He found a handkerchief in her pocket, and wiped his hands. The dagger, still bloody, he shoved back in his belt.

And left the study, closing the door behind him.

The footman waited at the bottom of the stairs. "My Lady requests time to compose a reply," Lucien said, a lie that might buy him a few minutes of time. The footman sighed, and dug in his pocket.

"For your troubles," he said, placing a few coins in Lucien's hand.

Lucien ducked his head, and exited.

As soon as he rounded a corner and was out of sight from the main street, he broke into a run.

A mile or so from Talos Plaza, he slowed. Huddled against the back of a building, breathing hard. He pulled the dagger from his belt, held it up to the light. The blade had its blood now, and he brought it to his mouth, tasted the fresh copper.

"I wouldn't get into that habit," a shadow said. "Good way to make oneself ill."

Lucien whipped around. The shadow from the previous night stood before him, but this time, with the hood down. A Dunmer woman stood in front of him, and smiled. Lucien held up the blade. "Your contract is filled."

"And so I saw. I'm impressed. You pulled it off more cleanly than you might have had you taken my advice on the gardens. That was very well thought out."

"So what now?"

Her smile grew bigger. "Now? Your new life begins. My name is Tadara Revalyn, and I am the Speaker for the Sanctuary in Cheydinhal. Once you have arrived in Cheydinhal, you will find a house in the east corner of the city flying a red banner. Go to the basement, and when the door questions you, answer thus: 'Sanguine, my Brother'."

She clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the family." And then, she was gone.

 

He told his family that he'd been offered a job with an alchemist in Cheydinhal. He thought that his brother looked happy to see the back of him.

He told the old alchemist the same. The man blinked a few times, and wished him luck.

He packed the few things he owned, wrapped the new dagger up in cloth, tucked his old one into his belt, and with the footman's tip, bought a ride on the back of a hay wagon.

He arrived in Cheydinhal as the sun was sinking. The residents paid no mind to a poor kid, and he found himself in front of the house with the red banner. The front door was unlocked, and he slipped in, worrying about mistaken for a thief.

But no cries came from the street. The house was well-appointed, but silent. The basement was just as silent, but less fancy.

And when he found the hole in the stone wall, leading back through a dirt passage—

The door loomed in front of him. Carved with omens of death, but it didn't intimidate him. An unearthly  voice rang through his head: "What is the color of night?"

"Sanguine, my brother," Lucien answered.

The door opened with a creek. "Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been wanting to write Lucien ever since I played Oblivion (several years ago), and here I finally am! Hello, Elder Scrolls fandom!
> 
> ~~Keeping this as a one shot for now, but seeing as I've been distracted by this all week, will probably expand down the line.~~
> 
> This is no longer a one shot. Definitely going to keep working on it. Enjoy!


	2. On an Awakening, of Sorts

The moon was bright that night.

Bright enough to cast deep shadows on the stones of the tower. Deep shadows that concealed the occasional hazard.

He felt the mortar crumble under his foot, then felt himself falling.

He hit the ground with a dull thud, and lay there for a moment. Staring up at the moon, wincing at the pain blooming in his back. Allowed himself a nearly inaudible whimper, before pulling himself up, gritting his teeth, and turning back to the tower.

Lucien made it to the top without further incident. The night watchman was dozing at his post. Lucien pricked him in the thigh with his dagger. Barely enough pain for the man to twitch in his sleep, but the poison would do its work. Quickly, quietly. The watchman might've died of natural causes for all anyone could tell.

Lucien crept down the tower stairs, keeping to the shadows, a spell ready in his hand just in case. There was no need for the precaution. The braziers were beginning to burn down for the night, leaving just enough light to see by.

The third door on the right. Opened without a squeak, as though the hinges had been oiled.

Which they had, just a moment ago.

Lucien stood at the man's bedside, admiring his prize. The nobleman slept securely, snoring just a little. Lucien leaned over, taking in the man's quiet snuffles. His dagger hovered in the air for a moment, then quickly came down and cut the jugular. The man seized, his eyes flew open, but the hand over his mouth prevented any sound escaping. The bloodloss and the remaining poison worked quickly. Within a minute, the man was dead, and the room was still, like the assassin had never visited in the night.

Back up at the watchtower, Lucien pulled a coil of rope from his side, and threw it around a post holding up the roof. A quick knot, the rope thrown over the side of the tower, and Lucien was able to climb down, this time carefully testing each foothold before putting his weight on it. Once he hit the ground, a quick tug on the other end of the rope loosened the knot, and the rope writhed elegantly in the air as it slid down to the waiting assassin.

And then he was gone, vanished into the shadows thrown by the moonlight.

 

He limped into the sanctuary, wincing with every step, and added a little moan, just for theatrics.

He flopped down face-first on his bed, and groaned into the pillow.

"That bad, huh?"

He groaned again.

"Oh come on."

Lucien rolled over and glared at Cirrine. The Redguard plopped down on the side of his bed. "Rough night?" she said cheerfully.

Lucien sat up stiffly, and rather than answer her, began to unbuckle his armor. Cirrine reared back and flopped onto an adjacent bed. "Hey, I don't care how bad your night was, I'm never gonna—woah," she added, as he worked his top off and turned around, showing her what he assumed had to be some amazing bruises.

"Yeah, ok," she said. "I could read your fortune in those. What happened?"

"I was climbing a tower. I fell," he said, and flopped back down on the bed, planting his face into his pillow and ignoring a stray buckle digging into his ribs. "It hurts."

"I gathered." He groaned again, louder, and could hear Cirrine stand. "Ok, ok! I'll grab a potion, be right back." A small patter of footsteps as she left the room.

Soon enough, she was back, and rubbing a cold poultice onto his back. He flinched away at first, but she gave him a stiff poke in the ribs, so he lay still for the rest of it. Even as her warm hands dug into his bruised skin. Even as he swore she was being rough on purpose.

"Better?"

"No thanks to you," he muttered.

"Always happy to help," she said. "Shall I leave you alone to grumble?"

"Please."

 

Cirrine was gone. She'd been the lucky one to land a coveted contract—a merchant in Skingrad who was not content with his station in life. Rumor had it that the man had bribed, coerced, and blackmailed his way into the shiny new title he held, and he'd made many enemies in the process. Speaker Revalyn had to draw lots—so many people had performed the Black Sacrament in the man's name.

"Lucky." Lucien elbowed Cirrine.

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Maybe in a few years you'll be getting jobs of this stature," she said. "A little more practice, a little less falling off towers—"

"I've been here three years longer than you," he said.

"Yeah, but have your balls even dropped yet?"

"Fuck you."

She set off in high spirits, leaving behind the rest of the sanctuary. Lucien didn't stop his stewing until dinner, when Vicente patted him on the back. "Never mind, hmm? You're young, Lucien. And there is no end to exciting contracts."

"Why does everyone keep reminding me how young I am," he muttered. "I'm not a kid anymore."

The old vampire laughed. "Living centuries tends to mess with one's perception on age, I'm afraid. But think about it, Lucien. You've had several high-profile jobs lately. Cirrine's been cooped up for far too long while she recovered from that stab wound. She deserves a night out."

"I suppose."

 

When a week passed and Cirrine didn't return, they began to worry.

One day, when rain was pouring down, the river in Cheydinhal beginning to overflow its banks, Lucien stared in silence at a copy of the Black Horse. The ink on the paper was beginning to blotch and run in the rain.

He brought it back to the sanctuary, and laid it out on the dining table, pulling the pages apart so they could dry.

SKINGRAD NOBLE SURVIVES ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

"Claims Assassin Was From Dark Brotherhood"

"Corpse on display in front of chapel"

"The Dark Brotherhood: Myths or Murderers?"

Slowly, the assassins of Cheydinhal  gathered around the table, reading through the headlines. The first three pages were dedicated to the story.

"The Black Horse does feed on sensation," someone commented dryly.

"In front of their gods' chapel," someone else murmured. "I find that sick."

There was a sketch of the corpse. Cirrine hung upside down, tied by her feet. The artist managed to catch the dead weight of a lifeless body with alarming accuracy.

All the while, Lucien just stared down at the papers, the type blurring in his eyes.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, but no body heat accompanying it. "I'm sorry," Vicente murmured.

Lucien just closed his eyes and his fists, felt a vein jump in his temple.

 

Speaker Revalyn slammed a fresh copy of the Black Horse on the table.

"This is an insult."

No one dared say anything. The Speaker rarely showed any hint of a temper, but when her temper surfaced, it could be deadly.

"We must repay this. A simple death will no longer do. We need to send a message that the Dark Brotherhood will not be toyed with."

"I'll do it."

All eyes turned to Lucien, who had stood.

"No, child. This man killed one of our people. We need someone experienced to handle this. Someone who can send that message and keep themselves safe."

"I'm not a child anymore! Just because I was one when I came here—it's been five years, in case you've forgotten, I've handled dangerous contracts, and yet you all seem to think I'm still twelve!" He glared at the seated assassins. "I've got the experience. I can do this. And I will send that message."

"You will control your temper!" the Speaker snapped. "This is not a contract for you!"

Lucien went still. "I will do this," he said slowly. "Cirrine was my best friend. And this bastard needs to suffer for what he did to her."

Speaker Revalyn looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

As the group dispersed, she drew him aside. "You have a temper, Lucien. And you must be careful with it. I know you're angry. Use your anger. Don't let it use you."

"I understand," he said.

"Sithis go with you," she replied, and was gone.

 

He waited behind the closed bedroom door, dagger in one hand and a spell in other.

He could hear laughter coming from the other side of the door. Good nights being said. Then the door opened, almost squishing Lucien, but still he waited. Waited until the door closed.

Within an instant, he wrapped his arm around the nobleman's neck, dagger to his throat. A spell descended, and the nobleman screamed. Lucien could feel his adam's apple bob against the edge of the dagger.

"I wouldn't bother if I were you," he murmured. "No one can hear us." He could feel the muffle spell pounding in his head, sealing the bedchamber off in a bubble of silence.

The nobleman reached an arm back around, tried to grab at Lucien, but Lucien darted away and gently, gently, pressed to blade to the man's throat. His skin yielded, Lucien smelled the blood, then the man lost control of his body and slumped over.

Lucien worked quickly; the paralysis poison on the blade wouldn't hold for long. He dragged the man over to a chair and propped him up in it, then pulled a rope from his belt and cut it into pieces, trying the man's arms behind the back of the chair, and his feet to the chair legs. Last of all, he slid the rope between the man's teeth and tied it behind his head.

"Good," Lucien murmured, stepping back and admiring his work. The man let out a muffled yelp, and struggled against the bonds.

"Look at me," Lucien said, and the man looked up, met his eyes—the only part of his face not concealed by the mask drawn over his nose and mouth.

"Comfortable?" A muffled growl. Lucien smiled. "Good. Normally I prefer to work quickly, but tonight is a rather special occasion."

The man went silent, and Lucien's smile grew bigger. "You see, I think we owe you a little something." The smile on his face vanished. "You killed one of our people. You desecrated her body and put it up for display. You insulted us, and made us look like fools. So, I believe we owe you for that."

Lucien leaned forward. The man leaned away as best as he could, the whites of his eyes flashing. The dagger flashed forward, and Lucien cut down the front of the man's coat. The fabric parted and draped away from his body, revealing a bare chest beneath.

"But the thing is," Lucien leaned forward, whispered in the man's ear. "I'm not here for any of that. No. I'm here because she was my _friend_ , and you killed her and you've got her hanging in the town square like some common criminal."

He stepped back. "And for that, you're going to pay."

Screams came from behind the gag as Lucien cut into his stomach, careful not to plunge too deep. He carved the shape of a capital I into the flesh, then slid the dagger under the flap of skin and gently lifted, exposing the purple-y sheen of the abdominal wall.

"Dear oh dear," Lucien murmured. "You didn't go quite this slow when you killed her? It really _does_ hurt, doesn't it? I mean, I could stab you if you want, like you did her, but I'd rather do this _my_ way."

He sliced through the abdominal wall, dug into the intestines with the blade, and pulled a section free. "Look at this," Lucien whispered. "We're all mortal in the end. Just a sack of blood and innards. The Dark Brotherhood knows that better than anyone else."

The man's entrails hung from the man's belly and trailed on the floor as Lucien worked more free, little by little. The screams didn't stop, but Lucien paused for a moment, renewed the muffle on the room, and let himself enjoy the sound of the man's torment.

"Had enough yet?" he asked, stepping back, admiring his work. A muffled groan. "Me neither. Should we try something else?"

He pulled his right glove off, and dipped his hand in the blood welling from the vivisection. And then, carefully, pressed it right above the man's heart. Lucien smiled when he took his hand away. A bloody handprint. The world would understand what happened when someone crossed the Dark Brotherhood.

The man held still during this whole process, but when Lucien was done, started squirming again.

"Have you accepted your fate yet?" Lucien asked, pouring some water into the basin on the vanity, and washing his hand clean. He pulled the glove back on. "No one will remember you for what you did in life. Even now your enemies are rejoicing. Four different people tried to buy a contract on you, did you know that?"

The man tilted his head. Lucien shook his. "It doesn't matter who. All that matters is that no one will remember you for your wealth, your power, your title. All they will remember is that you provoked the wrath of the Dark Brotherhood. And they will remember your death. You'll serve as a warning. Nothing else."

Despite the fact that the man's interior was now decorating his lap, Lucien knew it would take a long time for him to die. And frankly, the anger that his Speaker had warned him about was starting to rise in his throat. It was probably time to finish this up.

Lucien pulled another dagger out of his armor, this one treated with a slow-acting and incurable poison. He wanted to nobleman to be found alive, that his screams would be heard when his servants pulled the gag out. The man's last moments would only reinforce Lucien's message.

So he drew the dagger across the man's throat, not cutting deep enough to kill, but enough that the blood would flow and stain his neck, his shirt. And with that, Lucien released the muffling spell on the room, cracked open the bedroom window, and leapt into the night.

The man's cries echoed through the town.

 

With the city guards rushing the other way, Lucien was able to slip into the town square and cut Cirrine's body down without being seen.

He slid down the slope to the town gate, Cirrine over his shoulder, and headed out into the night.

He dared not look down at her face. This long in death, it wouldn't be Cirrine anymore; just another corpse.

He carried her all the way to the shores of Lake Rumare. It didn't take him long to find a rowboat moored at a lonely dock. He laid Cirrine in the bottom, and pushed it off into the lake.

After a moment, Lucien conjured a fireball in his hand, and aimed. The burning boat blazed in the darkness. He stayed for a few minutes, the light blinding him. When he closed his eyes, he could see in the impressions of the fire on his eyelids.

 

When he returned to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, another copy of the Black Horse was being passed around the table. But this time, the assassins crowed with delight. There was laughter. Merriment. He was clapped on the back. The front page was shoved in his face, and there was an illustration of his handiwork. The artist had gotten the man's rictus perfectly, and spared no detail, from the glistening of intestines to the bloody handprint.

Lucien just looked down at the stone floor. "What's wrong?" someone asked. The words echoed away in his head.

Then Vicente came up to him, an expression of concern on his shriveled face. And before Lucien knew what he was doing, he had his arms wrapped around the old man and he burst into tears.


	3. On Blood and Bonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucien gets to be a bit of a normal teenager for a change. Apart from the murdering and all.

When the summer heat hit Cheydinhal, the stones of the Sanctuary kept everyone cool.

Up to a point. Warm bodies still produced heat, and tempers ran as hot as the summer. Luckily, the same ire seized most of Tamriel; there were more than enough contracts to keep everyone busy.

Which meant the Sanctuary was mostly deserted. Lucien spent his time in the training room, stabbing at practice dummies with his old dagger. None of the contracts had come his way, and he was itching for some action, but it was just too hot to get outside and walk it off.

"Where's Vicente?" he finally asked, convinced that the old vampire was hiding from him. Lucien hadn't seen him in days. Probably didn't want to be bothered over contracts, or lack thereof.

"Not sure," was the reply. "I think he's holed up in his cave."

A joke, but an apt one. Vicente occupied a private room, and since he'd literally been with the Brotherhood for centuries, no one complained. The only clue that a vampire lived there was the stone ledge that served him as a bed (Lucien wasn't entirely sure how stone could be comfortable for anyone, even someone long dead).

Lucien knocked on the heavy wooden door, and when there was no answer, carefully pushed it open.

Vicente was slumped over at his desk. When he raised his head, Lucien had to keep himself from recoiling. Vicente never looked too well at the best of times, but now? His face was positively sunken. Bright red eyes glared out of the pits on his face. His skin was pulled tightly across his bones, like a mummy.

"Are you ok?" Lucien asked.

Vicente looked down at the paper he'd been working on. He'd knocked a jar of ink over in his sleep, and it stained the paper. He crumpled it up. "I've been better," he said, mopping up the rest of the ink. "I appreciate your concern, though."

Lucien moved over beside the desk, righted the ink bottle. "Is there anything I could do to help?"

"No…" Vicente trailed off. He set his head in his hands. "In truth, I am not always very good at taking care of myself. I'll say that I'm too busy with paperwork." He gestured at the sheets of paper on the desk, smiled ruefully. "And there is some merit to that. But it isn't an excuse for neglecting myself."

"Can I get you anything?"

Vicente shook his head. "Not unless you feel like bringing me back your next contract. Fresh."

"I haven't had any contracts," Lucien grumbled. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"A few months? I'm not entirely sure."

That explained his sunken countenance. From everything Lucien had heard, a starving vampire was at the height of their powers and incredibly deadly, but also incredibly distracted. A light flickered in his mind. "You can feed without killing someone, right? Can't you just ask someone in the Sanctuary for help?"

Vicente paused, turned a quill over in his fingers. "I have had…such arrangements with family members in the past. It is rare, however. As much as I am part of the family, most people just aren't comfortable with that, and I respect that. I wouldn't want to put anyone in an awkward position by asking."

Lucien shrugged. They dealt in blood all the time. The thought of losing a little of his own didn't bother him. "I'd do it, if you want."

Vicente met his eyes. "You are sincere?"

"Yes? I wouldn't offer unless I was. You're my friend, and you really do look like shit. I want to help."

"In that case, are you free right now?"

Lucien snorted. "I've been free for weeks."

"If you're going to make this a session in complaining over boredom, I'm afraid I will have to kick you out," Vicente said dryly as he stood, moved to a cupboard. He came back with a bottle of alcohol and a few cloths. "You know you are always free to come and go as you wish, and find trouble on your own. You do not need to _wait_ for a contract."

"Too hot out," Lucien muttered. "I think I'm allergic to sun."

Vicente snorted. "Unless I were to turn you, you do not know the meaning of 'allergic to sun'." He plopped into his fancy chair, and motioned to Lucien. "Sit."

"How does this work, exactly?" Lucien asked, perching on the edge of the chair, feeling Vicente at his back.

"Well, the neck is traditional," Vicente said. "If I'm not trying to kill someone, however, the shoulder is more accessible. Besides, it's much easier to cover up should it bruise." He opened the bottle of alcohol, and tipped some it onto a cloth. "Venom will prevent you from feeling any pain. And I must ask—have you eaten anything with garlic in the last few days?"

"Not that I know of," Lucien said. "Why—oh, you're allergic, right."

"Believe me, I'm aware of the irony," Vicente said dryly. "Top off, please."

Lucien went to work on the buckles on his armor. As he shrugged the leather off, Vicente continued, "I was allergic to that even in life. The irony may have been even worse then: a Breton, allergic to the primary flavoring in High Rock cuisine." Lucien chuckled. "Only one of the many reasons I went to Morrowind."

"You went to Morrowind?" It struck Lucien that he didn't know much about the old man, despite having known him for years.

Vicente wiped his shoulder down with the alcohol. "I did," he said, "and I never returned to High Rock. Now this may sting for a moment, but it should fade."

The bite did sting, but after a moment, Lucien didn't even register the pain. The sensation of lips on his skin, sucking, was too interesting. After a few moments, the world started going hazy. Probably the effects of the venom, he figured, then giggled suddenly.

"What?" Vicente asked, raising his head.

"Better than wine," Lucien said happily. Was his voice slurred?

"Hmm." Lucien turned around as Vicente grabbed the cloth again, cleaned the bite wound, and slapped a bandage over it. "Can you hold that?" he asked. Lucien tried, but his fingers didn't work quite right, and he dropped it.

"Huh," he said slowly, dimly registering that the cloth was now on the floor.

Arms enveloped him as he slumped over. Someone might've been talking to him, but he wasn't sure.

Vicente lifted the young assassin up from the chair, and looked closely at his face. Lucien's mouth had gone slack, and his pupils were blown.

This…wasn't right. He'd barely taken any blood, and vampire venom usually only dulled the pain in his victim. "Lucien?" he asked, but the only answer he got was a faint grunt.

Vicente scooped Lucien up, taking a quick tally in his head of who would be in the Sanctuary that day who knew healing. The results weren't good.

He carried the young assassin up to the living quarters, and dumped him in his bed. Grim, Cheydinhal's Silencer, looked up from the dining table, and bolted over to Lucien's bedside.

"Gods' blood," the big Nord muttered. "What did you do, Valtieri?"

"I'm not sure!" Vicente protested. He carefully tipped Lucien's head up, to maintain an airway. "He offered to let me feed from him, but this…I've never seen a reaction like this before."

Grim frowned. "He volunteered?"

"Yes! You really think I would feed from one of our people without their express permission?"

Grim sighed. "Sorry. Didn't mean to imply…" He reached over and felt Lucien's forehead. "He's not feverish. Looks drunk." He looked at Vicente. "Just keep an eye on him."

"Trust me, I intend to," Vicente muttered.

 

Lucien wasn't sure where he was when he woke up.

He shuffled through his memories, trying to figure it out. He'd gone and talked with Vicente, offered to help him out…? Oh. But then what?

His eyesight came into better focus. He was lying on his bed, Vicente perched at his foot. The vampire was reading a book, but snapped it shut and looked up when Lucien tried to sit. "I'm glad to see you're all right," he said.

Lucien squinted at him. Vicente looked only marginally better than he had before. The red of his eyes had dulled somewhat, but his face still looked like that of a mummy. "What…?" he asked.

Vicente set the book down. "I believe you had an extreme reaction to my venom. Most unusual. Are you feeling back to normal?"

Lucien stretched. "Yeah." Better than normal, actually. He felt like he had waken from a long, refreshing, nap.

"Good." Vicente looked relieved. "I know you volunteered for this, but if you wish to stop, then that is fine by me. I do not wish to see you hurt."

"Could you just not use venom?"

"I could. It would hurt more. Are you sure…?"

"I'm not worried about pain. And honestly?" Lucien grinned a little. "That was the best high I've ever had."

"That…was not my intent. Very well. If you're feeling better, come see me tomorrow."

 

"You are feeling well?"

Lucien tapped his hand on the desk. "I know you're worried," he said. "But I'm fine. Really."

"Very well."

They went through the same procedure as the day before, Vicente sterilizing his skin before he bit. It did hurt, but the pain dropped to a dull throb after a moment, and didn't bother Lucien in the least.

Instead, he talked, Vicente raising his head from Lucien's shoulder every so often to answer. It was good. Lucien hadn't really had an in depth conversation with anyone in a while, and it was nice to air his thoughts a bit.

"Why haven't I gotten any contracts lately?" he asked at one point.

"Most of them did not play to your skills," Vicente said. After a moment, he added, "Murders in broad daylight, in public. A number of people wanted gruesome deaths. Your strengths are more stealthy, quick killings done in private, with people in the area none the wiser—"

"It's not like I _couldn't_ do something loud and messy in public. It's not my style, but I wouldn't have a problem with it."

"Our Speaker might, however," Vicente commented. "Your face is not unknown in town, and you are linked with her. I'd rather not jeopardize anything to do with our public standing."

Lucien was quiet for a moment, thinking. Speaker Revalyn was known in Cheydinhal as a local wise-woman. Not a member of the Mages Guild, but someone skilled enough with magic and willing to offer it to the good of the public. Lucien himself had helped her out in that regard often enough, turning his alchemy skills to making potions for her use.

He'd asked her about it one time, his own paranoia not sitting happily with the idea of Brotherhood members being public figures. But their Speaker had her own reasons. "It keeps people off our backs," she'd explained. "There's a measure of respect for a hedge-mage, and it gives a good reason for so many to come and go from this house. A good reputation can be as good as a solid shield."

Lucien wasn't sure how well reputation would help them if anyone ever became suspicious, but the tactic had obviously worked for her. For quite a while, if his family members were to be believed.

"Vicente," he asked after a moment. "How long has Speaker Revalyn _been_ Speaker?"

"A long time." Lucien turned around, noted with amusement that Vicente had some blood on his chin. He reached back and wiped it off.

"Thank you. As for your question? I'm not entirely sure myself. She was Speaker when I joined, but I believe she may have been new to the position then."

Lucien's eyes bugged out of his face. "But you—you joined—"

"A little over two hundred years ago, yes," Vicente said. "Speakers generally have long command over their Sanctuaries. They do not rise to that position without being incredibly capable, and they also spend much less time in the field than the rest of us. I know how the younger family members look up to them, but believe me when I tell you that the job is more coordination and paperwork than contracts."

"Also elves," Lucien muttered. "I always forget about elves."

Vicente chuckled. "Yes. I did too until I realized that I would outlive most of them."

Lucien laughed at that.

 

It became a regular thing. Once a week, Lucien would knock on Vicente's door, and the vampire would greet him with a smile. Blood and conversation would flow, Vicente's eyes returned to their mild amber color, and his face positively glowed. He could almost pass for human in bad lighting.

Their friendship grew as well. "If our little chats are any indication," Vicente said one day, "you might very well make a fine Speaker one day."

"You think so—? Hey!" Comprehension dawned on Lucien. "I do not talk that much."

"You love the sound of your own voice. Ask any of the family."

"I—" In that moment, Vicente bit him without warning. Lucien yelped, then settled into a sulk. "That's not fair," he said.

Vicente just laughed quietly.

 

Usually, when a new family member joined them, they found their way to the Sanctuary on their own.

So everyone was surprised when Speaker Revalyn entered one day, a young dark elf trailing behind her. "Everyone, this is Melar Ienith. He will be training with us for a while."

Ienith just smiled shyly. He resisted most of the attempts to drag him away from the Speaker and talk while she gave him a tour and introduced everyone.

Lucien wasn't sure what to make of him. He certainly didn't seem like any kind of assassin, or even someone who could kill a stranger.

At dinner that night, a few more answers came out. Ienith was from Markarth. He'd come to the Dark Brotherhood's attention after pushing a person off a ledge. He'd been contacted by the Brotherhood after a second person fell to their death.

"What'd they do to you?" someone asked.

"Nothing," Ienith said. "I was trying to find you guys."

Most people contacted the Brotherhood with the Black Sacrament, and that was when they wanted someone dead. People didn't usually try to find the Brotherhood for other reasons. Rather, the Brotherhood found people, when it suited their purposes.

Lucien was up late that night, dancing around the training room with his daggers. He didn't even bother with the training dummies, instead just whirling around the room, slashing at imaginary enemies and dodging their blows. Maybe they were Imperial guards. Or maybe members of the Morag Tong, their rival guild. It didn't matter. All that mattered was losing himself in the movement, and the woosh of his blades through the air.

Until he noticed Ienith watching from the sidelines, a dagger in his own hand, trying to copy his movements and severely failing.

"What…are you doing?" Lucien asked, dropping his stance.

Ienith flushed. "Trying to learn."

"That's not—" Lucien grumbled and stuck his blades back in their holsters. "You learn little movements first, then build on them. I hope that's not how you learned sword fighting."

"I don't know the sword."

"Axe? Maul? Stave? Bow?" Ienith shook his head. "What _can_ you do?"

"I can swing a pickaxe." Ienith glared at him. "And I can punch your kidneys so hard you'll be screaming for your mother."

"Unlikely," Lucien muttered. "You're not always going to have high ground to push someone from. How are you going to fill any contracts?"

"That's why I'm here. So I can learn."

Lucien sighed. "All right." He pulled a dagger out and dropped into a fighting stance. "When you're fighting someone with a knife, you're going to be in really close. So you want to not be a target as much as possible. Always keep your side to them—" He turned, demonstrating, "and you're always going to be on the move. They'll try to hit you and you won't be there anymore."

Melar Ienith carefully copied him as he slowly moved. Occasionally, Lucien had to get behind him, correct his form.

After a while, they stopped. Looking at Melar, Lucien had to admit he was showing some improvement. He balanced on his toes now and was a bit more light about his movement than before.

"Can we do this again?" Melar said, looking hopefully at him. "You're a good teacher."

"Yeah." Lucien was surprised to discover that he'd actually enjoyed the whole thing. Having somebody take direction from him and be able to use it…it was nice.

 

Lucien quickly integrated their training sessions into his routine. In truth, he wasn't the only one teaching Melar. He'd walked in on Melar twanging the inside of his elbow with a bowstring. Lucien winced in sympathy. The bow was not his weapon, and he'd experienced that plenty himself.

Grim was teaching him the sword. Once Melar stopped trying to swing it like a pickaxe, he was ok at it.

And then there were other lessons. The dining table had been overrun by books, paper, a slate, and chalk. Lucien finally discovered what the deal was when he found Melar and Speaker Revalyn sitting at the table, Melar carefully reciting sentences in another language as he copied them out.

Lucien glanced at the books. Dunmeris script. Probably not useful unless you were in Morrowind or had frequent dealings with Dunmeri groups. Melar was from Skryim, as he recalled. He might not have been raised with his ancestral language.

By why learn it now? If he was going to stay in Cyrodiil?

One night after training with the dagger, he got his answer.

"Are you going to take any contracts soon?" he asked, swiping an apple from a bowl of fruit.

Melar plopped down at the table, wiped the sweat off his brow, and shook his head. "I don't know if I'm ready. But I'll have to at some point. Prove I can do it."

Lucien slid into a seat next to him. "Well, yeah. The whole point of being a Dark Brother is the contracts. Of course you will."

"But I'm not here to be a Dark Brother."

Lucien stopped right as he was about the bite into the apple, stared at Melar. "What do you mean? You're here, aren't you?"

"Not forever, I hope," Melar said, and shook his head. "I want to go home."

"Skyrim? We have sanctuaries there. Why'd you end up here?"

"Not Skyrim. Morrowind."

"We don't operate in Morrowind," Lucien said. "The Morag Tong…" All of a sudden it hit him. "You want to join the _Morag Tong?_ "

Melar looked at him, his eyes shining with tears. "My family was banished from Morrowind. I was born in Skyrim. I want to go home." He looked down. "But they wouldn't even let me across the border. So I figured I could join the Tong. They don't care who they take, as long as they can do the job, and no one will mess with them or their people. I just…I just have to learn how to actually be an assassin first." He took a breath. "And learn how to fit in. My parents never spoke Dunmeris at home. I don't know anything about my own people."

"Oh." Lucien wasn't sure to say to all that, so he bit into the apple to avoid answering. His mind was reeling. They were training Melar for the _Morag Tong?_ The Tong were long the enemies of the Dark Brotherhood. They mostly stayed out of each other's way, but when they met…things could get bloody indeed. This was odd.

But Speaker Revalyn had obviously sanctioned it, so he figured it was ok. He just wasn't sure what their leader was thinking.

So that week, he asked Vicente.

Vicente hesitated. "You realize that is none of your business."

"I'm curious," Lucien grumbled. "It doesn't make sense to train someone then give them to the enemy!"

"Call it a…peace offering, if you will," Vicente said. He paused a for a moment. "Cheydinhal is right on the border with Morrowind. We've had clashes with the Morag Tong before. About twenty years ago, there was one problem when we received a contract on someone who turned out to be one of their assassins. Generally, we try not to interfere with each other's business, but in this instance, things turned ugly."

He sat down at his desk. "Speaker Revalyn, while not a member of a Great House, does have some pull in Dunmeri society. Keeping in step with the Morag Tong is a constant balancing act. There have been too many deaths while trying to navigate that balance. I believe our Speaker is trying to heal some old wounds, as well as prevent new ones."

"Oh." Lucien had never paid too much attention to regional politics in his life. He made a mental note to brush up on some histories.

 

Melar was frustrated, and it was rubbing off on Lucien as well.

The Dunmer seemed to hit a standstill in his training. He was much more competent than he'd been when he came, but he was having trouble using those skills effectively. Every time he and Lucien actually dueled with knives or swords, Lucien was always able to force him into a surrender. Melar would just huff, then stomp away without a word.

Lucien realized he needed to approach things in a new way.

"Let's take a break," he said one night to Melar, who was dripping with sweat. "Work on something else."

"Like what?" Melar muttered, sheathing his dagger.

Lucien plopped down at a table, and gestured for Melar to take the other chair. "Do you know any magic?"

 "No."

Dunmer tended to be renowned for their magical skills. Just another aspect of his cultural identity that Melar was missing.

"This might help next time," Lucien said, and scratched a string of symbols into the tabletop with his dagger. Melar looked down at it, and Lucien grabbed his hand, placing it over the spell. "Like this."

After a few tries, Melar cast the spell, and the dagger flew from Lucien's hand.

"It's harder with larger objects," Lucien said. "But when you get into a bad position in a fight, your opponent usually isn't expecting you to magically disarm them."

Melar grinned. "Let's try this."

And the next time Lucien knocked him to the floor and put a dagger to his throat, a light flashed in Melar's hand, and the dagger was gone. Lucien pretended to be surprised, and Melar was able to pull him down, roll them over, and put him in a headlock.

"Yes." Melar let him go, and punched at the air. "Yes!"

Lucien sat up. The smile on Melar's face was huge. "Can we do more of this?"

"I'm still learning, but I'll teach you what I know," Lucien said.

 

Summer became autumn. The slopes of the Valus Mountains turned fiery colors as the trees changed.

Lucien finally got the chance to stretch his legs with a contract. And the night before he was supposed to leave, he checked his stock of poisons and discovered that his family members had been liberally "borrowing" from it all summer.

"Those aren't just free-for-alls!" he complained at dinner. "They took me months to make."

There were a few apologies, which Lucien accepted with a reluctant grumble. "It'll take ages to replenish those."

"Canyouteachme?" Melar sprung out of his seat, the words emerging in a rush. "I want to learn how to make poison!"

"Fine," Lucien muttered, still miffed. "When I get back."

The contract went without a hitch. When he returned, Melar was waiting. He tossed a basket and a pack at the Dunmer. "You'll want sturdy shoes," Lucien said.

"For alchemy?"

"Gotta find the ingredients first."

The autumn sunlight was blinding. Lucien winced and held a hand over his eyes. Melar laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen you in daylight."

"The sun hurts," Lucien muttered. He hated civilian clothes; there was no hood he could shade his eyes with.

They started around the walls of Cheydinhal, Lucien showing Melar the more common alchemical plants and explaining their uses. As the passed, they headed up into the hills. "A knife isn't just for fighting," Lucien said. "You'll also use one to dig up plants." He pointed at a lumpy white mushroom. "What kind of mushroom is that?"

Melar shook his head.

Lucien grinned and dug around the base of the mushroom, pulling it up by the roots. He pointed out a few features. "You can tell it's an amanita because it has a ring at the base." He pulled at the top of the mushroom, breaking the veil and revealing the red cap. "It's just too young to actually look like an amanita yet. Always dig up your plants by the roots. Even if you can't use the root, it can be helpful for identification."

He dropped the mushroom into Melar's hands. "Don't eat one of these unless you want a really bad fever dream."

Melar smirked. "And if I want a really bad fever dream?"

"Tell someone what you ate, and clear your schedule."

The basket and the pack were both filling up with roots, plants, and fungi. Lucien waved Melar behind a large rock. "Leave these here," he murmured. "I wanna check out the old fort, and there are bandits there sometimes."

Melar swallowed. "So if there are bandits, we fight them?"

"Absolutely." Lucien pulled out his dagger, and Melar did the same. "Stay low, and follow me."

The sounds of a fire crackling and loud rustling confirmed that yes, there absolutely were bandits at the old fort. Lucien could pick out three of them.

"Ok," he whispered. "Here's what we're gonna do. I'm going to head over to the other side. When I shout, we both go for the attack at once. Catch them by surprise. Stick to fighting one at a time. Incapacitate first, then kill them once you're safe."

Melar nodded nervously. "Ok."

Lucien patted him on the shoulder. "We've got this," he said, then crept away into the underbrush.

Once he had a good position, he let out a loud yell and charged into the bandit camp. Lucien's yell, however, was drowned out by Melar, who screamed like a banshee and went for a bandit's face.

Lucien grinned and turned back to his own fight. He quickly dispatched two bandits, and turned to Melar, who was working on the third. Melar's eyes were wild and the bandit wasn't particularly good with his greatsword. When a swing from the large sword missed, Melar stabbed the man several times before he could right the sword. The bandit reeled back, clutching at his wounds, and Melar finished by stabbing him in the throat. The bandit stumbled, then fell.

"Nice," Lucien said.

Melar looked up at him, an expression of shock on his face. "I didn't know that the ribs get in the way!"

"Yeah," Lucien said. "They do sometimes." He hesitated. Melar was hyperventilating. He'd dropped his dagger and was staring down at the corpse in horror.

"What's wrong?" Lucien said. "You've killed before."

"Yeah, but I've never seen them up close after! When someone falls from a high place, they kind of…splash, and you don't have to look." He looked at Lucien. "Their eyes don't look at you like that."

Lucien glanced down at the bandit. His eyes were showing the whites in a rather upsetting way. Lucien sighed. "Just roll him over if it bothers you. It's something you gotta get used to."

Melar winced and turned the corpse over.

"Can you go grab the pack?" Lucien said.

Melar nodded, and ran off, probably happy to get away from the fresh bodies. Lucien sighed and kneeled down, started stripping the bandits of their shoddy armor. Not for the first time, he wondered if Melar was really cut out for the life of an assassin.

When Melar came back, Lucien gestured him over to a now-topless bandit. "Plants aren't the only useful things for alchemy," he said. "Human body parts are as well."

If Dunmer could turn green, Melar would've. Instead, his face just went pale as Lucien started cutting open the bandit's chest. "You sure you're not part Bosmer?" he joked weakly.

Lucien rolled his eyes. "I don't _eat_ people," he said, using his knife to pry apart the ribs. "This stuff is really hard to find. I'd be paying a fortune for it at an alchemist's shop. And you can use human ingredients for some really powerful poisons. Much cheaper to just harvest it yourself."

He cut out the heart. "Can you wrap this in some paper? Don't want it bleeding all over." He handed it to Melar, who took it gingerly and quickly wrapped it up, his nose wrinkled the whole time.

"I didn't know bodies _smelled_ so bad," Melar said after a while. All three hearts were tucked away in the pack, and Lucien was going after strips of muscle now. "I thought it was only when they rotted…"

Lucien shrugged. "There's a lot of messy stuff in there. And while we're at it—" he pointed his knife blade at Melar, who flinched, "—you should be taking notes. Anatomy's good to learn. You were saying you had trouble with ribs? Learn where they are and you can avoid hitting them."

"Uh, sure."

When they wrapped up and hiked back down the hall to Cheydinhal, Lucien flagged down one of the gate guards. "There were bandits at the old fort again. We took care of them."

The guard smiled. "My thanks, Master Lachance. We'll send someone up there to retrieve them." He tossed Lucien a coin, who caught it and tucked it into his pocket.

"Won't they freak when they see that you cut them open?" Melar whispered as they made their way through town.

"Why?" Lucien said. "They know I do alchemy for Mistress Revalyn," he said, referring to their Speaker by the title the townsfolk knew her as. "Alchemists do that all the time, believe it or not."

Melar winced. "Maybe I don't want to learn alchemy anymore?"

Lucien shoved at his shoulder. "Come on. You'll have fun with actually making stuff."

 

There were voices coming from behind Vicente's door, which was unusual. Lucien knocked and entered.

"Oh hello, Lucien," Vicente said, looking up. "That's right, it is Middas, isn't it." He nodded to Melar, who was seated across from him at the table, and said something in a language Lucien didn't know. Melar shook his head, and replied hesitantly. This time, Lucien was able to recognize it as Dunmeris.

"Well, I'm afraid I will have to kick you out now," Vicente said.

Melar grinned and hopped up from the table. "Thanks so much! Do you think I'm getting any better?"

"Your confidence in speaking is growing," Vicente said. "You've come a long way in a few short months."

"You've been really helpful," Melar said. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Vicente inclined his head. "Absolutely."

Melar pounded Lucien on the back as he left.

Lucien closed the door behind him and sat on the tabletop. "I didn't know you speak Dunmeris."

"I told you I spent time in Morrowind, yes?" Lucien nodded. "The Dunmer are a proud people. You will not get far unless you make an effort to learn the culture. So I became fluent in the language. It's good to have a reason to speak it again, truthfully. The Dunmer have a very unique way of viewing the world."

"Huh."

Vicente got up and retrieved the bottle of alcohol and cloth wipes. Lucien pulled off his shirt. His shoulders were becoming riddled with scars from Vicente's teeth, he noticed.

A while later, when Vicente was finished with his blood and had bandaged up the wound, Lucien turned around in the chair. "Do you think he's ever going to be ready?"

"Hmm? Oh, Melar? I think so. I have confidence that he'll be a fine assassin one day. And a fine Dunmer as well."

"It's just—" Lucien hesitated. "He doesn't seem actually interested in killing people. He's weird about bodies. And he's nervous in fights."

"I think—" Vicente paused, then continued, choosing his words with care. "He's never going to be a killer. For him, joining the Morag Tong is about finding a home, and finding a family, as well as rediscovering his heritage and participating in his culture. Becoming an assassin is just his ticket to finding what he wants. And he is very determined to make this work. So yes, I believe he can do it."

"He has to actually learn to kill without question."

"It may take a while," Vicente said. "But he will get there. You in particular have been very helpful to him. I imagine it's good to have someone his own age to be a friend to and to learn from."

"How old _is_ he?" Lucien said. "He looks like a kid."

Vicente laughed. "That, you'd have to ask him."

 

There was one thing Melar hadn't done much of yet, and that was stealth. Lucien decided to remedy that.

"You'll probably be doing a fair amount of assassinations inside houses," he told Melar. "It's easier to keep quiet and get away undetected. So let's start with that."

He asked Speaker Revalyn if they could borrow her house to practice in, and she readily agreed.

Lucien sat in the bedroom on the top floor. His back was to the door, which was closed, and he pretended to read a book. "Get a knife blade to my throat before I can notice you and stop you," he said, "and then we can try other things."

The first attempt did not go well. The hinges squealed when Melar opened the bedroom door, and Lucien was out of his seat and had him pressed up against the wall in an instant. He squeezed Melar's wrist, who winced and dropped the dagger.

"Try again," Lucien said.

This time, his only indication that Melar was there was a soft footfall on the floor. Before Lucien could turn around, Melar had the dagger to his throat.

"Very nice," Lucien said, and Melar lowered the dagger, letting Lucien turn around. "That was much better—" He sniffed the air. "Is that _bacon?_ "

Melar scratched the back of his neck. "Speaker Revalyn had some grease sitting in the kitchen," he said. "So I fixed up the hinges."

Lucien burst into laughter. "Smart. But let's clean that off. Dunno if she'll be ok with her bedroom smelling like bacon for days."

Melar smiled sheepishly, and wiped the hinges clean with an old rag.

Next, Lucien wanted him to try tracking him through town. They stood in the general store, Lucien with a covered basket over his arm.

"I'll uncover the basket when I leave," Lucien said. "Once I do, I need you to buy a ribbon and tie it around your arm. You'll have an hour. If you can tell me what I have in the basket, you'll win. But if I discover what color ribbon you're wearing, you'll lose, even if you get the basket right. So," he grinned, "the trick is to stay out of my sight and be as inconspicuous as possible."

Melar nodded, and headed up to the counter for a ribbon.

Lucien pulled the cloth off the basket as soon as the door shut behind him. Three red apples, and a yellow pear. A treat for later, if everything went well.

When the clock chimed the hour, Lucien sat on a bench in the town square and waited.

"Three apples," Melar said as he came up from behind Lucien. "And a lemon."

"Close," Lucien said. "But I think I saw a blue ribbon? You've lost, Melar."

He turned around. Melar was standing there, frowning at him. "It's _teal_ ," he said. "It's got green in it. It's not just blue."

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Fine. We both win and lose." He handed Melar an apple. "We'll do this again sometime. But not today. You wanna try the woods next?"

"Absolutely."

Lucien was regretting that decision later when he walked under a tree and Melar dropped on top of him, knocking him to the ground.

"Ouch," he muttered, trying to untangle himself from lanky Dunmer limbs. He looked up at the tree, and saw that the branch Melar had jumped from was still trembling. It was _high_. "You sure _you're_ not part Bosmer?" he asked.

Melar laughed. "Not that I know of."

Lucien turned and looked at him. Melar was smiling, confident that he'd done well and the job was done.

Lucien had other plans. "So what do you do with a target after you have them on the ground?"

Melar hesitated a moment, then in a flash, tried to put Lucien in a headlock. Lucien ducked away, and pinned Melar to the ground, but shoddily. Melar freed a hand and grabbed a handful of dirt, chucked it at Lucien's face. Lucien had to turn his head, and while he was distracted, Melar was able to get the upper hand and pin Lucien under him.

Lucien groaned. Hand-to-hand was one thing they'd never needed to teach Melar. "Ok, ok. You win."

"Yup." Melar hopped up and offered Lucien a hand. Lucien grabbed it. Once he was up, he brushed the grass and dirt off of himself.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky. "We'll continue these exercises this week," Lucien said. "I want you to be able to get around without anybody ever knowing you're there. You did pretty good today."

"Can we go out for dinner?" Melar said. "I'm hungry, you're probably hungry, and it gets stuffy down in that basement."

Lucien snorted at the euphemism for the Sanctuary, but couldn't argue. It did get stuffy in there. Melar had worked hard today. A night out would be fun. "Let's do the Newlands," he decided. "You can practice speaking Dunmeris."

Melar winced. "They'll just laugh me out of the place."

"No they won't."

Being that Cheydinhal was right on the border of Morrowind, there were a number of Dunmer living there, and a strong Dunmeri culture in town. The Newlands Lodge was right at the center of it. Dunmer bars tended to be more comfortable for Lucien than Imperial inns or pubs. They were dark, with lots of shadowed corners, lots of shouting, rowdiness, odd business being discussed, strong drinks. And best of all, people didn't tend to eavesdrop or ask questions.

Lucien hung back while Melar approached the bar, and asked Dervera in a halting voice for—well, Lucien wasn't sure what he ordered. Dervera was very kind, didn't mention his stilted speech, and handed him two tankards that were near to overflowing.

They grabbed a table in a back corner. Melar slid a tankard across the table to Lucien. "Cheers," he said. Lucien grinned and drank.

A nice fall ale. Melar had obviously been paying attention to Lucien's tastes for the past few months. The smell from Melar's own drink was a lot stronger. "What is that?" Lucien asked.

"Not sure. I told her to surprise me, just make it from Morrowind."

"You should ask. The smell on that could be a weapon on its own."

Melar rolled his eyes. "It's not that bad. I actually like it."

Soon enough a tray arrived, and they dug in. The star of the meal was the bruschetta with tomato and smoked fish. "This is _so_ much better than Sanctuary cooking," Lucien said. "You were right. This was a good idea."

Melar winced. "Grim is the worst. I can't stand Nordic cooking, and I grew up with it."

"Well lucky us then, because I think he was supposed to do dinner tonight."

They finished the rest of the tray in contented silence. Melar called for drink refills, and Lucien winced as his friend was poured another tankard of the pungent drink. He buried his nose inside his ale. It smelled like—

A thought occurred to him. Maybe it was the ale talking. "Is it true they eat bugs in Morrowind?"

Melar wrinkled his nose. "They eat rats in Skyrim. Rats and skeevers. Is that any worse?"

"Guess not," Lucien said.

"And mammoth noses," Melar added, "if you can get one. I remember when a mammoth died by one of the more remote mines when I was a kid. They cut off the nose and it took three men to carry it back to town. And then they toasted it over a long fire and portioned it out. Everyone made fun of me for not eating it." He took a drink. "Compared to that, bugs don't seem that awful."

"Yeah but have you ever actually eaten a bug?"

"Only on a dare."

"Ew. What'd it taste like?"

Melar laughed. "Crunchy, mostly. Better than mammoth nose I imagine."

Lucien had never seen a mammoth, and only had a faint idea of what they might look like. That seemed like an awfully large nose.

"You mean to tell me you've never eaten something awful on a dare?"

"Not really." Lucien shook his head. "There was never anyone my own age in the Sanctuary to dare me."

"I could do it. Here. Try a sip of this." He shoved his tankard across the table.

"Uh—" Lucien hesitated, eyeing the drink. "Yeah, I've been meaning to ask—" A distraction— "How old are you anyway?"

"Twenty, why?"

"Seriously? You look fifteen—wait, what's twenty in elf years?"

"Twenty? I don't know, what's twenty in human years?"

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Twenty, I guess?"

"I can't help I look younger than my age." Melar frowned. "How old are you? You act like an old man sometimes, but I know you're not a vampire, so that's the story?"

"Eighteen? I guess being a murderer for a long time makes you weird? I don't know."

Melar nodded, then looked down at the tankard. "You gonna do that dare?"

"Fuck no. That stuff could probably kill a troll."

"I'm still alive. I'm no troll."

"You certainly act like one sometimes."

A wicked grin crossed Melar's face. "So be it." And he leaned in and kissed Lucien on the mouth, hard.

Lucien's mind went blank. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands. And before he could figure it out, Melar pulled away. "Taste it now?"

"I didn't taste anything," Lucien said stupidly. "Come here."

And he finally figured out what to do with his hands. Namely, grabbing Melar by the collar and dragging him in. Melar laughed softly, and his breath brushed across Lucien's lips.

It was like _nothing_ he'd ever felt before. Nothing like the high of a kill, nothing like the tension of sneaking through shadows—kissing Melar was light and easy and intense, and Lucien wasn't sure how long he could spend doing this before he had to take a moment to breathe, but he was ok with the idea of not breathing for a bit if this could go on.

Lucien had no idea what he was doing, but Melar guided him, showed him with his lips. And a bit of tongue. And teeth. Lucien winced slightly as Melar bit him, but ignored it and kept going.

Finally they had to break apart, Lucien breathing heavily. His lips felt swollen. Melar was just wearing his smile. "It's a good thing," he said, "that we're here. There's no _privacy_ in the Sanctuary."

Lucien shook his head. "No there is not." Was his voice rasping, however slightly?

"What do people do when they _want_ some privacy?"

"They stay here," Lucien said.

Melar laughed. "We're in the right place then."

Melar pulled him back in close. This went on for quite some time, until someone noticed. "Get a room!"

Lucien cringed, burying his face in Melar's shirt. "So much for privacy."

"We can do something about that," Melar whispered into his ear, and Lucien bolted upright, grabbed Melar's arm, determined to not have any more interruptions. Dervara just laughed and passed over a key, Lucien paying for this one.

Melar took over, dragging Lucien up the stairs. When they finally got to the room, Lucien slammed the door behind them and bolted it, Melar tugging at his collar. "Give me a second—" Lucien muttered, making sure that the key wound up on the bedside table, and not on the floor or kicked under a piece of furniture in their haste—

He finally turned, and Melar grabbed his face, pulling him into a kiss even more frenzied before, if that was possible. Lucien buried a hand in Melar's short hair, wanting to erase any space left between them.

"Gods," Melar panted. "I've wanted this for _ages_."

"Ages—" Lucien gasped. "How'd you know I prefer men?" He'd never had the chance to actually _test_ that, but he was fairly sure it was true, and so far, his assumption was proving right.

Melar laughed. "I didn't. I was just hoping."

"Sithis," Lucien muttered, and dove right back in.

 

Lucien winced as the morning sunlight hit his face. He opened his eyes, squinting in the glare.

Melar was awake, and lying next to him. Melar reached out, ran his hand over Lucien's cheek. "You're prickly," he said.

"I need to shave," Lucien muttered. He yawned.

"What're we doing today?"

"Same thing we did yesterday."

"Dinner and blowjobs?"

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Stealth." He paused. "And maybe dinner and blowjobs."

"What about stealthy public blowjobs?"

"Absolutely not."

They dressed, had a light breakfast, and Lucien pushed forward with his training plans. His face heated at the thought of sex in public. It probably _would_ be a useful exercise in stealth… But he did have his pride.

He nipped down to the Sanctuary at noon to grab a few potions, and a spellbook. Invisibility and chameleon spells only made stealth more fun, in his opinion, but they did take some skill to use effectively. Footprints appearing out of nowhere, strange brushes of air…the illusion could be broken if you weren't careful.

Melar caught on quickly, and managed to sneak up behind Lucien, blow into his ear, and vanish in an instant. Lucien squeaked in surprise, and realized that in that moment, most of his dignity had vanished.

But not his pride. That Melar was learning fast and well, and it was _Lucien's_ teaching helping him along. That was pride.

 

On a particularly cool night, everyone huddled around the fire in the kitchen. Speaker Revalyn was with them tonight, and had even cooked dinner. Lucien had no idea what any of it was—he supposed it was all Dunmeri—but it'd been delicious all the same.

Melar was out on an errand. The Speaker had been quietly discussing his progress with Grim. Lucien was dozing faintly, not really paying attention.

"And what about you, Lucien?" the Speaker asked, startling him fully awake. "How do you feel Melar's training is coming?"

"He's doing good," Lucien said, and then frowned. "He needs more real combat experience though. He's fine in the training room, but I'm not sure I'd trust him to hold his own in a real fight."

Speaker Revalyn nodded. Grim shrugged. "So send him to the Arena," the big Nord said.

"What, and get a promising trainee killed in public?" Speaker Revalyn's voice turned icy.

"Owyn owes me a favor or two. He'll give the lad a fair shake. Trust me. If nothing else, he'll have an evenly matched opponent. And with our training, I think he'd have a real advantage."

The Speaker tapped the table for a few moments, mulling it over. "All right," she said eventually. "Do you think a few days would do it?"

Grim nodded. "It'd leave him in a better place than he is now."

Lucien frowned. He'd never been to the Arena—he'd been too poor as a child to make any bets—but he'd heard about the sport. The fights weren't always to the death, but many of them did end in serious injury.

He reminded himself that Melar, as nervous as he could get in a fight, was also tougher than he looked.

"I want to come," Lucien said, "when you take him to the Imperial City."

Speaker Revalyn looked at him, and nodded.

 

"Grimnir, my friend!" the Arena battlemaster roared, his voice echoing through the stone walls of the Arena's underbelly. The man looked Grim up and down, smiling hugely. "Finally decided to get back into the game?"

"No," Grim replied, "but this one—" he shoved Melar forward "—needs a few real fights to cut his teeth on."

The man looked disappointed. "I'll see what I can do with him. How long are you staying? Can probably get him two rounds today, maybe three, if he does well."

"Just a few days." Grim clapped the man on the back. "Thanks, Owyn."

Owyn hustled Melar away, and Lucien took a moment to look around. All over the room, fighters were practicing with every weapon imaginable. The arms hung on the wall easily rivaled the size of the Sanctuary's armory. If he enjoyed the spotlight more, Lucien thought, he wouldn't mind giving the Arena a go himself.

"Come on," Grim said, squeezing his shoulder. "Won't want to miss any of the action."

Grim reserved them seats in one of the nicer sections of the stands, and ordered a bottle of wine and some food. Lucien leaned forward over the rail, eager to see what this was all about.

"Don't expect anything too grand," Grim said. "They always do the novice fights in the morning. The afternoon is when you get the real fun. Then the championship match is always the last of the day."

The announcer's voice boomed, and the gates at either end of the arena opened. Lucien watched as the two fighters danced around each other, wincing at their poor sword skills. One eventually caught a lucky break and hacked at their opponent, sending them sprawling into the dust, where the victor stabbed them. Several times.

Blood spilled over the sand. The victor was hailed, and limped offstage, while the prone figure was picked up and hauled away by several Arena staff.

"Hope Melar does better than that," Lucien muttered. He didn't get why the crowd was cheering so loudly. It was an unsatisfying fight by rank amateurs.

Grim snorted. "Our lad can handle a sword at ten times that skill."

"He'd better," Lucien said. The next fight was announced and yes—Melar stepped onto the field of battle, equipped with some _very_ revealing armor and a shortsword.

His opponent was a large, clumsy man with a greatsword. Lucien winced. The way the man was waving that thing around, he could easily hurt Melar without even trying.

It looked like Melar caught onto this as well. After being forced back by several swings of the greatsword, he finally ducked under the man's arm and attacked him from behind. The man turned, and a swing of his sword caught Melar on the arm, forcing him to the ground.

"No!" Lucien cried out. He made to stand, but Grim just patted his arm. "Give the lad a chance," he said. "He's not done yet."

It was true. Melar rolled under the man, and stabbed upwards. Lucien winced at the man's howl, but he went down, and Melar was able to regain his footing and force the man into a surrender.

Lucien breathed out, and when the crowd broke into cheers, he cheered with them.

 

A few more bouts later, and Melar was getting much more confident. His last challenger of the day was another Dunmer, who fought wildly, worrying Lucien. Melar was overwhelmed by the onslaught.

"Come on," Grim murmured.

Lucien wasn't sure whether to close his eyes or not. Fighting and blood didn't bother him, not normally. But when his friend was in trouble—

A flash of light, and his opponent's weapon flew from their hand. The other Dunmer looked around furiously, confused, and Melar took the opportunity to strike, and strike hard.

The corpse had to be carried off the field. Melar stood there, breathing heavily. Shit. Was he going into shock again, over killing a person?

A moment later, he looked up, and raised his sword. The crowds roared, and Lucien jumped to his feet. "Yes!" he screamed. "Yes!"

Grim smiled, an extremely rare sight. "You taught him that?"

"Yeah."

Grim poured some wine as Lucien sat back down. "That's probably the last for today," he said. "Owyn knows better than to overwork any one fighter." He handed Lucien the goblet. "We'll collect him later; he'll need to treat that arm injury, and Owyn likes to go over each fight with the novices. For now," he said, and raised his own goblet, "enjoy the day off."

Lucien grinned, and clinked his goblet against Grim's.

 

Grim was right; the fights did get better as the day wore on. Lucien took to studying the best fighters, knowing that he could learn from them.

As the sun began to sink, the championship match was called. It was a thrilling fight. The Grand Champion defeated the challenger, but only after a long and well-fought bout.

They'd emptied the wine bottle several hours ago, and Lucien was starting to think about dinner. As the crowds filtered out, Grim took them down the underbelly of the Arena again. Inside was chaos, fighters bustling about, treating wounds, cleaning and maintaining gear.

"Owyn!" Grim called, and the battlemaster turned around.

"I'll forgive you this time, Grim. You brought me a good one. You sure I can't keep him?"

"You can have him again tomorrow," Grim said. "But after that, we need to be getting back to Cheydinhal."

Owyn sighed. "I still get people asking about you, you know. 'Where is Grimnir? Will he ever fight again?' People remember you, my friend."

"And I remember my days here with fondness. But it was time to move on."

"I understand. Under protest." Owyn folded his arms. "All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

Lucien made a note to ask Grim about his Arena career someday. But tonight, he had other plans.

"I DID IT!" Melar came zooming out of a corner of the room and wrapped his arms around Lucien's neck.

"You're the winner," Lucien agreed, grinning. "You buy dinner!"

Melar let go of him and clutched at his chest. "What? But I did all the work!"

"Yeah, and you won all the money!" Lucien grabbed his elbow and pulled him towards the door, Grim following.

Once they were out into the night autumn air, Grim patted Melar on the back. "Well done, lad. You two enjoy your evening. I'll meet you at the Merchants Inn later."

Once Grim left, Melar stuck his tongue out. "Tell me again why I'm buying dinner?"

"I lost all my money on ill-informed bets." Lucien pretended to swoon.

Melar poked him in the side. "You did not, you liar. Come on. I'll treat you anyway. That spell saved my ass."

 

"Did you make any bets?" Melar asked him over a platter of bread and cheese.

Lucien shook his head. "Nah. I might tomorrow. I'll bet on you, how's that?"

Melar grinned. "We can both walk away from this a bit richer."

"I'll drink to that."

The room at the inn was spacious, and the bed was plush. Melar grabbed Lucien and dragged him onto the bed, kissing him. When they broke apart, Lucien grinned. "You did good today."

"Hell yes I did." Melar's confident smile thrilled Lucien. It was so much better to see that expression than the frustration or anxiety he'd seen so often from Melar when fighting.

Lucien gave him a little kiss on the corner of the mouth. "You better put in a good showing tomorrow."

"I will." Melar winked. "Bet on it. Literally."

Lucien laughed.

Melar did even better the next day. He took to pressing his attack, driving his opponents back and getting them into helpless positions.

At noon, they collected Melar, Lucien collected a large purse of money from the oddsmaker, and they grabbed a carriage back to Cheydinhal.

 

Lucien received a new contract. And the Speaker decided the Melar would shadow him.

It was an ideal first contract. The target was a nobleman with a large country estate. He'd strayed from his wife. Both the wife and the other woman found out, and together they hired the Brotherhood.

Lucien scoped out the estate's mansion with Melar in tow. It would be a relatively simple undertaking; enter the man's bedroom through the balcony door at the night, and then be gone and away. Hopefully no one would notice til morning.

Melar was almost vibrating with anticipation. Lucien sighed and challenged him to a few spars to work out the tension. After a while, the spars turned into throwing insults at each other, and then someone threw an apple. Speaker Revalyn snapped at them both, and they sheepishly escaped outside.

When the clock chimed the hour, Lucien dragged Melar back in to prep for the evening. Normally it would be a simple task, but Lucien wanted to do more careful preparation than he normally would. He'd never actually brought someone along on a contract before, and he needed to ensure that Melar learned from the experience.

The sun was setting earlier each day, heralding the oncoming winter. Together, they vanished into the shadows.

There were no guards patrolling the estate. A mistake the nobleman wouldn't live to regret. It was simple enough, with a dark vision spell, to slip underneath the balcony, and make the climb to the second floor. Lucien was slightly jealous at how easily Melar scaled the stone wall. "I grew up in the mountains," he'd always said by way of explanation.

They made it to the balcony. Lucien handed Melar a lockpick, and within a minute or two, the door was open. Lucien held up a hand as Melar grasped the handle, and pulled some oil out of his pocket and fixed the hinges. You could never tell when a door might turn traitor and squeak.

The man lay in bed, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the room. Melar hesitated. "What now?" he murmured to Lucien.

Lucien simply nodded and gestured to the sleeping figure. "All yours."

Melar blinked, then stepped up to the bed, his footsteps making no sound. He pulled a dagger from his armor, and staring down at the man in a fierce concentration, paused, lowered the knife, dug it into the man's throat.

He cut so deep that the man couldn't make any noise but a faint gargling as the blood rushed into his windpipe. Melar just watched, didn't move until the man died, the blood continuing to pool in the bedsheets.

Melar finally turned back and looked at Lucien. "Let's go," he said, and Lucien nodded. He closed the balcony door behind them, and he and Melar leapt from the balcony, landing in the soft brush below.

As they made their way back to Cheydinhal, Lucien turned the contract over in his mind. Melar had done perfectly. But he wasn't a killer, Lucien remembered. The murder had been businesslike, with none of the joy that any other Brotherhood killer would take. Lucien was faintly disappointed. Melar hadn't froze, or panicked, but he didn't have any love for his chosen profession.

It was a means to an end, he remembered Vicente saying. Melar wasn't a killer, and never would be.

But he was proving that he could be an assassin.

 

Speaker Revalyn was pleased, and sent Melar out on a contract of his own.

It was another easy one, but Lucien couldn't help but worry. Melar was gone for a few days, and the whole time, he couldn't find any rest. Pacing around the Sanctuary, biting at his fingers—Grim finally rolled his eyes and sent him out with a large shopping list. The errands were completed without thought, Lucien worrying the whole time.

He just couldn't shake the memory of a friend going off on a routine contract, and not coming back.

He lit a candle for Sithis that night, praying that he wouldn't have to retrieve and cremate Melar's body.

 

Melar returned safely, the victim's ring brought back with him; a request from the client. He was greeted with cheers and bottles of wine opened. Lucien's relief turned his head to cotton. He threw his arms around Melar, and Melar hugged him back, triumphant.

It was decided. Speaker Revalyn wrote several letters, several tense days went by, and then an answer came. They would meet the Morag Tong at the old fort outside of the city. And they would decide whether to take Melar on.

Late that night, everyone was sleeping. Everyone but Lucien. He tossed and turned, and eventually gave up. He got up, shivering from the stone floor on his bare feet, and crawled into Melar's bed, snuggling in close to him.

Melar opened his eyes, gave a slight smile, and pulled Lucien in close. Eventually, lulled by Melar's breathing and heartbeat, Lucien found sleep at last.

 

Only four of them went. Speaker Revalyn, Grim, Melar, and Lucien; all shrouded in black. The Speaker had a small magelight to help guide their path on the moonless night.

"How are you feeling?" the Speaker murmured.

"Nervous," Melar said. "Excited? I—this is my one chance," he mumbled. "My only chance to actually go home." He paused. "If they don't—?"

"You will always have a home with us if you wish it," the Speaker said.

Melar exhaled. "Thank you. I hope it doesn't come to that."

When they arrived at the fort, it seemed deserted. But then the shadows quivered, and several people melted out of the darkness. They wore strange armor, like it was made from the shells of a crab. Some had goggles covering their faces; others had them pushed over their heads. All of them were covered in a fine grey dust.

Speaker Revalyn nodded. "Serjos," she said, and then spoke to them in rapid Dunmeris. At one point, she gestured Melar forward. He bowed his head. A query from one of them, and Melar answered. His speech was still slow, but he'd lost most of his hesitation.

After a moment, one of the Morag Tong stepped forward, and drew their dagger. Lucien flinched, but Grim put a hand on his shoulder. Melar answered by drawing his own dagger, and the two fell into a fighting stance. "They wish to test him," Speaker Revalyn murmured. Grim nodded, and Lucien just prayed that Melar could hold up under the pressure.

The two traded swipes for a few minutes, and then danced forward and back. The Morag Tong wasn't trying to defeat Melar, Lucien saw. Not right away. He was assessing him, looking at how he would deal with certain questions in a fight.

After a while of that, the bout changed. Now the Morag Tong attacked with abandon. Seeing if Melar could stand up to a brutal opponent. The assassin was much faster than any Melar had fought in the Arena, and far more experienced than Lucien. They drove Melar back, forcing him to defend himself, his moves growing sloppier and sloppier.

Then there was a flash of light, and the Morag Tong lost their dagger.

Lucien smiled inwardly.

The two stood for a second, their breathing heavy. Then the Morag Tong stepped back, murmured a few words to their leader. Melar sheathed his dagger and stood at attention, his head bowed. Lucien's heart pounded as the assassins had a quick discussion.

Then the leader looked up, and nodded.

Melar broke out into a massive grin. Lucien glanced sideways, and even Grim and the Speaker were smiling. Melar turned and shook the Speaker's hand, then Grim's, then he threw his arms around Lucien. "You did it," Lucien murmured.

"Thank you," Melar whispered back. "So much. For everything."

And then he let go, and stepped up to the leader of the Morag Tong. They had a few words, and then Melar grabbed the small pack he'd brought along.

They were leaving tonight, then.

A few more words, and then Melar turned back and waved. And just like that, the Morag Tong melted back into the darkness they'd come from, Melar following in their wake.

On the way back to Cheydinhal, Speaker Revalyn turned to Lucien. "You seem to have a talent for teaching people. Would you like to do more of that?"

Lucien smiled, remembering how Melar had been when he'd first come. Shy, nervous, could barely hold a dagger. And he remembered those first moments of pride when Melar caught on to a new skill.  And now, months later, Melar was a Morag Tong assassin in the making. And Lucien had a part in that.

"Yeah," Lucien said. "I'd like that."

 

This high in the Valus mountains, the air grew cold. As the sun began to rise, Melar could see the landscape of Morrowind stretched out in front of him. Grey, inhospitable—ash on the air, strange plants in the crags. He'd never been here before, but his bones knew this land. Home.

At the border crossing, the customs guard held them up. "Names," he said.

The guard checked them all against a massive register, and frowned when he came to Melar. "Ienith," he said. "That family was exiled."

One of the Morag Tong narrowed her eyes. "He's with us," she said.

The guard looked at them for a moment, then nodded, and made a note in the register. Melar's heart soared at the sight.

One of them handed him a mask and goggles. "Put these on. You'll need protection from the ash."

Melar slipped them over his head, and followed the group down the path leading to his new life.


End file.
